


all the same

by bornofstorms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Smoking, somewhat of a non-linear narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornofstorms/pseuds/bornofstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg and Dean really, really, hate each other and what they represent, a fic.</p><p>cws inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the same

**Author's Note:**

> The whole point of this was to show that hell really fucks with your head and showing the differences between someone who got made into a demon and someone who didn't but still went, and how that makes you question what your experience did to you. Which neither of them like, because well, it's hell. And it's not like they hated each other enough already.
> 
>  
> 
> mentions of torture and rape with sexualized violence throughout. meg's meatsuit was killed during crowley's torture.
> 
>  
> 
> takes place during season nine, which I never watched and probably destroyed the plot and characterization of.

Meg wants to take her cigarette and hold it up to his neck like a gun. His flesh and the fire. Make him burn like his mama. He shifts a little bit, almost like he can feel her thoughts burning into his skin.

He looks up from his heap of supernatural phenomenon newspapers.

"What Meg?"

She takes another drag. The scent of burning skin floods her mind. This is why they're never left alone together. They'd devour each other up.

"Nothing." she says it with one of those shit eating grins, smoke pouring from her mouth.

 

It's a pathetically futile cause, but it's something. Crowley is an overgrown bug who knew how to position himself in times of chaos. Abaddon though. Abaddon is a knight of hell. Personally selected by Lucifer. The destroyer.

She actually wants to laugh. They’re so royally fucked.

In reality, all she does is yawn. She never wanted to become this familiar with either of the Winchester's voices, and yet here she is. Worthless and dangerous plans that would kill them all being created, then scratched, only to be temporarily replaced with an even worse plan.

Dean’s voice is so laced with the tint of liquor she’s not entirely sure how he’s coherent. It’s the elephant in the room so big she swears they can all feel it pressing against their bodies. But he’s there, with that look on his face that he always has, and standing.

“That is never going to work." She says about idea, what fifty? She's too old to be listening to this shit. "I know what it’s liked to be fucked by Abaddon, and you won’t like it. I can guarantee that will totally fuck us all.” Her tone so blatant it doesn’t fall deaf to Castiel’s ears like half of the things she says does. They all go there for a second with wondering what exactly she means by her Abaddon comment. 

“Do I want you to clarify?” Both of Dean’s eyebrows raised.

“Oh come on Dean, you’ve been to hell. You know exactly what I mean.” She’s been getting bored of playing nice. It’s a sore subject, and she’s just jammed a knife into the wound. They’re not going to get the clean kid's version.

Any sign of cockiness is gone in an instant. He knows exactly what she means.

“Alright that idea is out.” He clears his throat and they continue.

 

Dean's soul was reconstructed by the cold, calculating hands of angels, but she can still see the cracks in their perfect little stitching. His soul was ripped and torn, and then shoved back into his body all neat and new.

It just doesn’t work that way.

They pulled Dean from hell, and in that they ripped and shredded him with their reconstruction as much as hell did with their deconstruction.

No angel, no matter how powerful can just take away hell like that. But why pretend angels ever even gave a damn to. They didn’t give a fuck about Dean Winchester just like they never gave a fuck about anyone else. They did such a shitty as fuck job of putting him back together, his seams are loosening of his own doing. 

She’s tempted to slowly undo each stitch, watching him unravel under her trained fingers. There’s quite nothing like the talent Alastair gifted unto them. She knows exactly how to apply the right amount of pressure over the right amount of time. How to make him unravel completely into her hands without even touching him, and if this wasn't a life or death situation, she just might. 

 

It’s a different type of fire that floods her mind than the one on the end of her cigarette. But then again hell made it all the same.  

He’s talented at what he does, the hunt. His kills have a certain grace to them, almost a beauty. The edge of hell in him is like a calling card sewn into his soul. He’s his own special brand of hell and human. All that fire and brimstone carefully wrapped up inside him hidden away, coming out in tiny bits.

“Some of us don’t want to die of lung cancer here.” He looks like he’s crafting a way to kill her with the newspapers. “I’d like to defeat Abaddon first.”

“Seems to me like you could use something to ease the stress.” She purposely blows the smoke towards his face. 

“You not being here would be a great start.”

“Oh Dean, I’m hurt.” Voice full of mock.

“If it wasn’t for certain people you’d be in a world of hurt Meg.” He says her name like it’s a dirty word, meant to hurt the person on the receiving end.

“Care to go into detail about that hurt?”

“You’re disgusting.”

Hell made it all the same.

 

She dyes her hair back to brown. There's no such thing as a familiar face staring back at her, but she likes it better this way.

Castiel keeps a steady regime of making sure her body's healing well. It's strange, foreign. His hands are gentle and there's no underlying promise of threat, like they might turn bone crunching in a second. She almost itches the anticipation of it, but it never comes. Her body heals perfectly, but she can feel his sight gazing over her true form. There's nothing he can do about that. He hasn't said anything about, but by the way he looks at her, he has a good idea of what Crowley did to get her to look that way. With each torture, with each rip and tear her form changes to reflect it.

'Still think I'm beautiful?' lays in her mouth but she never says it.  

 

Dead of the night they sit in the car alone. Hours passing without a sign from Sam or Cas, and hours to go.

“You were in the pit for what, thirty years?” He doesn’t answer.

“Ah right, it was forty.” She knew how long it was. “You know, demons never forget. Every detail is still there. There’s no getting away, just living in to what it made you. None of that time heals all wounds shit. It’s as fresh as it is now as it was then.”

“What are you doing?” He looks sleep deprived.  

“Making conversation.”

“Stop.”

“Don’t want to talk about being tortured? Alright, understandable.” She shifts to put her feet up on the dash.  “Being, that’s one thing, but doing, that’s a whole oth-” She stops when he points his gun at her. “No?”

“Stop talking, or I fucking swear I will kill you. Sam and Castiel can come back with your brains covering the car and I could not give a damn.”

She believes him.

 

It takes two more hours for him to cave. She didn't entirely expect him too, but for a few moments he's honest.

“I haven’t forgotten any of it. Being tortured, torturing, it’s all crammed in there with all the other shit.”

“I know.”

He laughs. It’s not funny. “I hate you. Never forget that.”

“I hate you too.”

 

She saves his life that night. Totally slaughters the four demons that had cornered him. Demon killing knife in one hand, angel sword in the other. She pulls him off the floor and hands him the knife without a second thought, and they take out three more together right away. He's seen her work with Cas like this, but they've never done it. Flowing like a dance, totally in step with the other, tag teaming demons. She's the one who starts taunting them, and he picks up on it. The words just come out of him naturally, like second nature. One to distract, one to kill. They work with a total efficiency. Killing demon after demon. They lose count of how many they kill, but with the amount of blood they end up covered in, it looks like a lot. All appearances of sleeplessness replaced with the wakefulness of hunt. 

Meg thinks the look suits him.

She can't remember if what she really wanted was to destroy him, or for him to destroy her. 

 

The argument isn’t any different from the rest, the same old shit, but they’re both so fucking done with everything. She doesn't bother to walk around the table, just hurls it across the room with her mind, smashing it, papers flying everywhere.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I'm so tired of going over the same old shit with you.”

"That makes the two of us." Then she punches his jugular.

She attempts a hit into his stomach before he has them both on the floor. Round and round they go. She somehow manages to keep getting close to his ear to whisper insults to him, he’s yelling them back at her.

Her nails digging into his chest until there is blood, ripping into his tattoo. He manages to break a few bones, but they reset in seconds. She can get on top for a second before he’s got her leg twisted, arms wrapping around her, holding her down to the ground. Both of them breathing heavy.

She starts laughing.

“This is funny to you?” He tightens his grip. 

“Sam and Cas just got home and you’ve gotten your… gun pressing into my back.”

Cackling. She’s fucking cackling.

“I will…” His voice full of threat when he stops himself, but she doesn’t need to hear it out loud. There are a million promises of pain she can just feel him thinking just by the way he’s got his body pressed against hers. Minuscule muscle flexes he probably doesn’t even realize he’s making.

“I heard you had talent back in the day Dean, I’d love to see what you got hidden away in there.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she can feel him evening out his breath in an attempt to gain composure.

“You’ve been thinking about it haven’t you? That gun threat was too clean cut, too hunter. There's so many more exciting things you could do.”

“Shut up.” He let’s her go, and walks away. 

 

“Just me and your brother bonding.” Is all Meg has to say about the broken table and knocked over furniture.

 

“I am not you.” He’s sitting at their newly bought goodwill table with his lunch when she walks in. “We are not the same. I made it out, and even if I hadn’t, I would never be like you. Do you understand?"

"Understood." She leans over the table, takes one of his fries, and leaves. 

 

 

The new table gets destroyed that day, only the second day of them having it. 

He tastes like pain just as much as she tastes like peanut butter, not actually, but it’s there anyway. The way he moves his mouth is uncomfortable, a hard pressing force, but she doesn’t do any better. He’s practically trying to bury her into the table he’s pressing against her so hard, but his hands are _almost_ soft, going all of her, learning every inch in minutes. 

It’s some horrible type of soothing that works for the both of them. It shouldn’t, but it does. Both of their bodies ache with the physical pain they inflicting on each other before their mouths touched, minds howling with the poisonous words they said, but it feels a hell lot better than it did before. It's rough, anger fueled, and Dean ends up with bite marks that take over a week to heal.

She opens him with the words from her mouth, spilling out secrets of his that should never face the light of day, bringing up memories he's tried to buried. He doesn't say a thing, just moans and whines, letting her do whatever she wants, fuck him senseless hurt him, whatever. 

When the table breaks they take it to the floor. He holds her down firm under him. He's on a roll, verbal training pouring out, and once he starts he doesn't stop. One of hell's best hovering above her, sharp and to the point. When he's good, he's great. His words wrap around her body and mind.

Cut by the same knife, cut with the same knife, and now cutting each other with that knife. They are a mess on the floor of everything that they are and are trying not to be. They’re both fucked, so they fuck each other. Ripping open wounds and trying to patch them up at the same time, and ending up in exactly the same place. Thank you and fuck you meaning the same thing. Hell makes it all the same. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I never finish a fic this fast. literally this took me three days. I'm slightly confused and a little distressed this is a sign that this is horribly bad.
> 
> I guess I have a thing where I write fic and people fall of stuff during sex? first the car in innocence lost and now this goodwill table. this is a totally ridiculous trope and I love it.


End file.
